


At What Cost?

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mary Doesn't Exist, Depression, Implied/Referenced Torture, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD Sherlock, Past Torture, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Fic, Scars, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock's black moods, Sorry Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything looked as if it were just how it had once been, up until it suddenly became clear that, in actual fact, a lot had changed, Sherlock most of all, and they wouldn’t be able to go on pretending that everything was fine.</p><p>In which Sherlock returns and suffers one of his black moods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At What Cost?

**Author's Note:**

> Another reunion fic, the tone's a little lighter than my usual stuff, sort of.  
> I've had a productive week apparently.

 

 

John paused in the living on his way to the kitchen.

  
Sherlock was still on the sofa. He’d been there for a full three days. He had been back for just over two weeks, and John had only just gotten used to having the detective around, back in 221B.

  
At first he had been livid, and he had done a lot of shouting, which Sherlock had fully deserved, but he wasn’t sure yet if he regretted saying some of the things that he had. Sherlock, to his credit, had just listened, soaking up John’s anger like a sponge. When John was done spitting at him, Sherlock simply responded;

  
“I apologise, John. I...uh…I never thought you would be so affected,” quietly.

  
This of course had resulted in quite a bit more yelling on John’s part. For the next few days, he’d put up a wall of passive aggressive silence, interacting with Sherlock as little as possible.

  
Sherlock, trying to appease John, was quiet, a model flatmate, and if the tea that Sherlock made him went untouched, going cold more often than not, then John tried to convince himself that he’d forgotten it, he wasn’t being childish, really; he wasn’t.

  
Eventually he’d come around, and tried to question the detective about his faked death. He had a lot of questions actually, how, and why firstly, but also where he’d been and what the hell he had been doing for 2 years. But Sherlock had been reluctant, giving vague answers and excuses.

  
“It hardly matters, John; it’s in the past.”

  
John was frustrated by Sherlock’s deflections, and yes, admittedly there may have been some more shouting, but he grudgingly appreciated Sherlock’s desire to get past it and go back to how things used to be, sort of appreciated it, a bit, anyway. That was what he’d wanted after all, above everything for two years, so he had let it rest, for now at least.

  
Life seemed to return to normal after that, surprisingly easily, even if John still jumped occasionally when Sherlock spoke or entered a room, still not having entirely come to terms with the fact that his best friend had come back from the dead. He thought that he had handled it rather well, actually, under the circumstances; he hadn’t even punched him, but he hadn’t quite ruled it out as a possibility at that stage.

  
It hit him hard one morning, about a week after he’d returned, when he came downstairs (he never could bring himself to use the other bedroom, it had always been Sherlock’s bedroom) to find Sherlock unpacking all of his science equipment on the kitchen table, grumbling under his breath about the dust, dressed smartly in one of his usual suits.  
It was as if nothing had happened.

  
John felt a tightness in his throat and his eyes began to get a bit misty, Sherlock was really here to stay, he’d come home.

  
“John?” came Sherlock’s wary voice.

  
The detective was frowning, trying to evaluate John’s emotional state to explain his reaction, John had always been Sherlock’s guide to emotions and without John’s input, he was clearly struggling to determine what was wrong. John cleared his throat.

  
“Hmm?”

  
“I said; I’m missing a volumetric flask and a couple of 100mL beakers.” Sherlock repeated slowly, as if John was a small child, still frowning.

  
“Oh…uhm…yeah. A few got broken in the move, sorry about that.” He wasn’t remotely sorry, not at all.  
In his mind John relived himself hurling them against the wall in a fit of anger and grief.

  
Sherlock grunted in acknowledgment, lowering his gaze back to the glassware awkwardly, he’d probably deduced what John was thinking from the twitch of his jaw or the depth of the wrinkles on his forehead or something equally ridiculous.

  
It didn’t take away from the surge of happiness that he felt seeing Sherlock refill the flat with his clutter, and for the first time in what felt like a very, very long time; John Watson had smiled.

  
But what really made him think that they were going to be okay was when they had moments that showed that whatever had changed, the dynamic of their relationship, whatever it was, hadn’t. In one such moment, they had been in the kitchen, bickering about something while John supervised Sherlock eating his toast, Sherlock said something that was all ‘high and mighty’, and John had waved him off;

  
“Oh shut up, you toff, you sound like your brother.”

 

  
Sherlock’s affronted expression had reminded him of a case they had taken in the country-side, where, in an attempt to resist arrest, a suspect had pushed Sherlock into a heap of cow dung.  
When they had arrived back at the flat or _‘civilisation’_ as Sherlock had bitterly referred to it, after the case, Sherlock had vowed to kill any man who dared mention it again.

  
“Anyone?” John had teased

  
“Well perhaps not you or Lestrade, you may be useful to me yet.” Sherlock had conceded, still put out.

  
“What about Mycroft?”

  
“What about him?” Sherlock had muttered darkly

  
John had then proceeded to ruin everything by bursting into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, which cracked Sherlock’s straight face. So they had stood there, bags still at their feet, with Sherlock smelling slightly of cow shit, half bent over, and crying with laughter.

  
It hadn’t even been that funny, but it was the sort of memory that John treasured the most. Very few people got to see Sherlock Holmes being himself like that, and in a way John felt almost privileged.

 

  
Remembering that, John had started to chuckle a little, and Sherlock was looking at him like he’d just suggested they adopt a child or something, so the additional mental image of Sherlock trying to handle an infant didn’t help at all, leaving Sherlock to watch without a clue to what was going on, as John just laughed harder, harder than he had in a while.

  
Everything looked as if it were just how it had once been, up until it suddenly became clear that, in actual fact, a _lot_ had changed, Sherlock most of all, and they wouldn’t be able to go on pretending that everything was fine.

  
~

  
Sherlock’s black mood descended over the flat like a thick fog, and there it had stayed. He lay listlessly on his side on the old leather sofa, heavy, as if the forces of gravity had taken a specific disliking to him in particular, crushing him under their weight.

  
The telly was on, muted to some ridiculous reality show, and although at first glance, Sherlock appeared to be absorbed in it, he was limp and his eyes were glassy, he wasn’t correcting it with any sarcastic retorts, he wasn’t watching it at all. But John preferred to keep it on, at least keep up some semblance of the façade that Sherlock was even remotely close to okay.

  
At first, John had panicked a bit; especially as he’d only just gotten him back, heaving a sigh of relief when his vitals were normal. It was bizarre to feel the warmth of Sherlock’s skin at his pulse point, they’d somehow managed not to touch since his return and it was nice to have a reminder that he was human.

  
He forced himself to remember that this wasn’t exactly unusual behaviour for Sherlock per se, John had even seen it before, he just wasn’t used to it anymore. What was it that Sherlock had thrown at him casually just minutes after they had met? _‘Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.’_

  
Sometimes when living with Sherlock, John had thought that it would be a god-send if Sherlock would shut up, just for a few hours, but what he wouldn't give right now for Sherlock to call him an idiot and make awful screeching noises on that poor violin.

  
He got no response when he spoke to him, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he could hear him, but he still made food and placed it on the coffee table, even though he would just collect it again a few hours later, untouched.

  
He hated it when Sherlock was like this; he’d forgotten how sobering it was to watch how they crippled him, these episodes, his vibrant genius muted until he was half catatonic. John always felt uneasy about leaving Sherlock alone in the flat when he was in such a state, so he phoned in sick to the clinic, and mostly stayed home.

  
Even the usually unflappable Mrs Hudson found it a bit much to cope with, seeing him so devoid of life;

  
“Are you sure he’s alright? Should we, I don’t know…call, someone?” She whispered conspiratorially, as if Sherlock was about to get up and admonish her for gossiping behind his back.  
John tried to assure her that Sherlock would be fine, he’d find his way back to them soon enough, but it didn’t sound convincing, even to him.

  
She came back late with a tray of freshly baked chocolate biscuits;

  
“I made the ones he likes,” she said worriedly, “You will let me know, won’t you, when he’s not...” She gestured wordlessly at Sherlock’s still form, making a little distressed noise in the back of her throat, as he made an effort to be comforting.

  
He assured her that he would and she quickly retreated back to her flat, holding a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

  
He looked at the tray and sighed, those biscuits had been the ace up his sleeve when trying to get Sherlock to eat; he couldn’t resist the damn things. John had actually tried to make them once, but after seeing the horrified look on Sherlock’s face, as he very ungracefully spat one out, he’d tried them and had to agree that they were utterly disgusting.

  
John still suspected that Sherlock had put… _something_ in the cocoa previously, promptly forgotten about it and had just refused to admit his guilt, but that was neither here nor there, because now Sherlock wasn’t even looking at the things, though the smell of freshly baked biscuits had already wafted through the entire flat.

  
On the third day, John was really starting to get concerned, he was debating whether Sherlock had even moved since he’d gone to bed the night before, he certainly hadn’t showered or changed. John assumed at one point he _must_ have gotten up, if only to go to the toilet.

  
In a fit of optimism he braved Sherlock’s bedroom, feeling a bit like a guilty child, like he shouldn’t be there. He was looking for evidence, anything at all that hinted that his friend had slept at all. But all that greeted him was a carefully made bed and the reek of stale smoke.

  
He aired out the room, spotting the ashtray Sherlock had stolen for John from Buckingham palace at the foot of the bed. It was overflowing with two-day-old cigarette butts, and he sighed, imagining Sherlock sitting here alone on the hardwood floor, smoking himself half to death in the dark.

  
Back in the living room, he bit his lip, indecisive. He wished he knew what Sherlock was thinking, what toxic thoughts were swirling through his brilliant mind, John had never been able to tell what went on in his ‘funny old head’ (Mrs Hudson’s words, not his).

  
The idea that Sherlock wasn’t thinking at all bothered him so much more. He had tried to leave his flatmate be and wait it out as he had before, but somehow this time seemed so much more serious, and the longer it went on, the more anxious John felt.

  
He sat, carefully on the sofa in front of Sherlock’s chest, he was still wearing Wednesday’s pyjama bottoms and thin, grey t-shirt, his bare feet must be cold, it occurred to John belatedly.

  
He tried talking to him again, but Sherlock remained silent, so he rested his hand gently on his left shoulder blade, causing him to flinch minutely, as if John had slapped him. It wasn’t much, but it was something, at least he was responding to outside stimuli; that placed him fairly high up on John’s probably-not-a-coma scale.

  
John made a decision.

  
He placed his book aside on the arm of the sofa and carefully lifted Sherlock’s torso until he was resting in John’s lap, his head on the cushion between John and the sofa.

  
He wrapped a strong, protective arm around Sherlock’s ribcage, breathing in sharply though his nose, a pained moment passing as John mentally calculated just how low his BMI would be (dangerously low, even by Sherlock’s poor standards), and he took a few calming breaths.

  
Then he began to read aloud from his book, it was some terrible spy novel that Sherlock was bound to hate, his thumb absentmindedly running back and forth along his friend’s side.

  
He was a doctor, and this might be a bit of an intrusion on Sherlock’s privacy, but he’d never really had much of a concept of personal space (burrowing cold toes under John’s leg when they were watching the telly together or just blatantly depositing his feet in John’s lap when John was in the way), besides, John felt like he had to do something.

  
It took a while, but Sherlock started to stir slightly, like he was surfacing after having been underwater for a long time, which John supposed he had in a way.

  
“John?” he asked, a little confused. So he could hear him, it had just taken a while to get through.

  
“Yeah?” John replied conversationally, like this was normal, something they did all the time, he didn’t want to spook Sherlock into shutting down; he had a long track record of bailing out to avoid emotional conversations.

  
“What- what are you doing?” his voice was more vulnerable than John ever remembered having heard, including that time at St Barts… the question wasn’t aggrieved either, he honestly didn’t know.

  
“I’m comforting you,” John informed him.

  
Sherlock paused.

  
“Oh,” he murmured, somewhat surprised, as though it was a new experience for him, John, quite sadly, suspected that it might be.

  
But Sherlock didn’t push him away as he had expected, he simply readjusted himself, and settled back into John’s embrace.  
After a few minutes had passed in silence, and John thought Sherlock had fallen sleep, he piped up again, his voice still raspy from disuse;

  
“Why did you stop?”

  
So John continued reading throughout the afternoon, and he kept going when it got dark, switching on the lamp closest to them. Sherlock just listened to the sound of John’s voice, it didn’t matter what he was actually saying. He wasn’t much more reactive than he had been before, but now he knew that he wasn’t alone in this, that John would see it through with him, or he hoped Sherlock thought so.

  
Eventually Sherlock stopped him, shivering slightly, despite the fact that John had tended the fire;

  
“I wasn’t playing hide and seek you know,” he confessed quietly.

  
John vaguely remembered making that accusation a few days ago and swallowed; he waited patiently for him to continue. He didn’t want to interrupt, in case Sherlock thought better of it and clammed up.

  
“I…I had no choice, he would have-” John could feel the tension in Sherlock’s frame as he stopped himself, breathing deeply. Sherlock’s voice was growing in strength as he continued;

  
“It wasn’t fun and it wasn’t a game,” he insisted firmly, “It was hell.”

  
John closed his eyes as he listened to Sherlock opening up, he told him about Moriarty, about what had really happened at St Bart's that day, the…snipers…

  
Once the words started to come they didn’t stop, and John wondered if events had been different, would Sherlock ever have told him any of this?

  
He probably hadn’t intended to, and he might still regret that he had, John suspected that he would have kept it locked up in his head, allowing it to do god knows what damage.

  
Sherlock told him about being on the run, about hunting and being hunted in return, the men he had been forced to kill…here he broke the constant stream of information to gauge John’s response, extremely tense.

  
When John was not angry or appalled (he was more sad than anything), he continued, relaxing marginally.

  
It was a story that dragged on, seemingly without end, just getting steadily worse, a slow motion avalanche unfolding before his eyes. John could do nothing to stop it, nothing to help as Sherlock was buried, because it was already in the past.

  
A story that shattered John emotionally, it was hard just to listen to, never mind what it must have been like to have experienced it first hand, especially the part where Sherlock described his capture and subsequent torture in Serbia, he was honest, but John suspected that he had glossed over a lot of the worst parts.

  
As he spoke, John traced the raised scar tissue lightly though Sherlock’s t-shirt; scars he hadn’t known were there, (and he should have, he was a doctor for christsake, he knew the signs) eyes damp, until he realised that Sherlock had fallen silent.

  
How can a person even begin to respond to being told something like that? John didn’t know, and he’d been in the war zone in Afghanistan.

  
He was overwhelmed at how selfish he’s been; focusing on his own grief, never asking what Sherlock had been through. But Sherlock hadn’t been telling him this for sympathy, or to make John feel guilty, he didn’t want John’s pity. He had told John because he knew that he wanted to know, plus, it would be difficult to hide forever.

   
“Sherlock…” John began gruffly, at a loss, “God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

  
“I’m not,” Sherlock stated unexpectedly, catching John by surprise, his tone determined. He sat up to face John, eyes bright again.

  
“I was successful, I destroyed Moriarty’s network.”

  
“But at what cost?!” John gaped, not understanding Sherlock’s strange attitude towards everything.

  
“I was worth it John, I assure you, every minute. The alternative was unacceptable. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of me, do you see? (John’s face must have shown that he really, really didn’t) God John! Why do you never observe?”

  
“He failed. Moriarty failed. My heart is still very much intact,” Sherlock announced, as if it was a grand revelation.

  
His face fell at John’s vacant expression ( _‘look at you all, you’re so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing,_ ’ echoing in John’s head).  
Sherlock, sighing dramatically at the awful cliché, tried again;

  
“It’s here,” he clarified, stabbing a finger into John’s chest for emphasis, annoyed at having to spell it out.

  
The corner of his lip quirked up in satisfaction as John’s eyes widened comically.

 

  
“You, John Watson, are worth a thousand wounds.”

 

 


End file.
